


Here We Are, Juggernaut

by soloproject



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-20
Updated: 2010-07-20
Packaged: 2017-12-04 15:41:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/712359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soloproject/pseuds/soloproject
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes there's no choice but to follow.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Here We Are, Juggernaut

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd this myself to the best of my ability. Sorry for any typos, etc. Also, we don't know Eames' totem, of course, so I just made one up for him for the purpose of this story. Title from a Coheed and Cambria song.

The impact of the airplane’s wheels felt like relief as they hit the runway and Arthur watched as his die tipped over onto its loaded side. He pressed it into his palm and closed his eyes as the plane taxied to a stop. The team was all right—Arthur knew that rationally, it was only a dream and if there was a sense of accomplishment, it wouldn’t sink in until much later. The look on Cobb’s face, however, felt close to it. Out of all of them, Cobb deserved this much.

People began to rise out of their seats as the plane’s hum died down, stretched out their kinks or reached for their luggage. Ariadne untangled herself from her headphones and shook out her hair. Saito stood, business-like, suitcase already in hand and headed for the exit. Fischer and Cobb moved slower, turned to each other in that post-long haul flight haze one gets sometimes, reached out to shake hands and murmur goodbyes—superficial now in the light of what they’d just been through. Fischer would not remember most of it, save for the most important part: the Inception, of course.

Eames stayed in his seat, waiting. He liked to linger and he did so not, his eyes roaming all over the cabin, over Arthur’s profile as he reached to get his bag from the overhead compartment. As Yusuf passed between them, they gave each other slight nods, temporarily blocking the Point Man and the Forger’s view of one another but when he was gone, Arthur looked right at Eames, poised to turn towards the exit. Eames smiled at him. He knew he was lingering but delighted in the fact that Arthur was clearly hesitating.

“You’re awake,” Arthur said, face stoic but sounding almost accusatory. Eames chuckled and lifted his hand, passing a silver dollar through his fingers, back and forth, perfectly.

Arthur shook his head and left. Eamed watched his back before finally getting up and tossed the coin into the air once, caught it and slapped it onto the back of his hand. It was a double-headed coin but in his dreams it always landed on tails. Eames didn’t really consider the item to be his totem, although it served its purpose. He had always been a sensory man and trusted his instincts and his talent for observation more to decipher between what was real and what was a dream. He also has never been out in the field as often or as deeply as Cobb or Arthur. Eames enjoyed the real world, liked the allure and spontaneity of it; liked the unexpected and the games of chance and the unpredictability. 

Eames was also plenty happy to leave his subconscious alone.

Eames didn’t have anything with him on the plane, save for the contents of his pockets but he runs into Arthur again while the man waited for his luggage. When he crowded into Arthur’s personal space, Eames first went unnoticed but when Arthur finally does, he gives a little jolt, as if surprised. Arthur pointedly took a step to the side, at act that made Eames smile.

“Where to?” Eames asked, watching the bags go round and round on the carousel.

“None of your business,” Arthur replied, poised as ever. He glanced down at his watch as if impatient, which Arthur never is.

“Quite,” Eames agreed. “But I thought I’d take a cue from you in regard to my own destination. A little inspiration.”

The quip earned him a twist of the lips that actually reached Arthur’s eyes. Eames supposed Arthur though he’d pulled one over Eames’ eyes for this round but the Point Man is easy to play. Arthur has always been easy and for that, Eames will let him think he’s won this one. He knows what happens next after all. It is Eames’ job to study people, after all.

“Inspiration?” Arthur said, learning over to snag his suitcase, small and neat, just like him. “From boring old me? You’re the last person to take inspiration from someone like me.”

The first city is New York 

Eames found Arthur at a small private table at Le Bernadin, almost exactly as he pictured it in his head. Arthur was in a suit, although his coat is gone and his tie has been pulled loose. A fedora sat on the table and the wine bottle was half empty. If Arthur was drunk it didn’t show; he simply sat there, staring off into space.

“Mind if I join you?” Eames asked, pulling out the other chair. 

Arthur snapped to attention and collected himself with a speed that Eames admired. “Yes. Yes, actually. I do.” His forehead crumpled in disapproval but he doesn’t cause a scene. 

“You’re so predictable, Artie,” Eames said, pouring himself a glass of wine. “Cheers,” he toasted before taking a swallow. “It was either a place like this, really, or the Hamptons; either a Rockefellerian fantasy or a Gatsbian one.”

“I really hate it when you make up words,” Arthur said, picking up his fork to resume eating what had been a forgotten filet. “Are you in trouble? What do you want?”

“Oh, you, so uptight. The States are lovely, especially New York in the fall. But I was bored and who in our little team of rag-tag heroes happens to be the authority on boredom? Dear Arthur, naturally.”

Arthur suddenly smiled and his face widened up in that appealing way Eames remembered. His expression is wrier than anything but his eyes twinkle a little. Arthur wiped his mouth on his napkin and tossed it on the table, waving for the bill.

“I don’t suppose you’re here to teach me a thing or two about not being bored.” Arthur said. “Because until you came, I wasn’t.”

The next city is New Orleans. Eames stood on a dock, smoking when Arthur wandered over. He wore a flowery shirt, khaki shorts, a fishing hat and aviators, like a skinny, much too pale Hunter S. Thompson. 

“You made it,” Arthur said. 

“Of course, darling.” 

They walked to the roadside open-air diner for cold beers and a game of chess. Eames was in a light-colored suit but he shed the coat and opened up his cuffs and collars. By the time they have each won three games and Arthur is grudgingly arranging the pieces for a tiebreak, night has fallen and they’re both pleasantly drunk; Eames is willing to lose in exchange for a bed. The hotel they had both checked into was within walking distance. Eames had been amused to find they had both been assigned to the fifth floor— later not so much when he discovered that the elevator was out of order and the staircase was stiflingly narrow.

“Check!” Arthur crowed. He leaned back in his seat far enough raise the front legs, that bad habit of his.

Eamed slapped his hands on his thighs and some money on the table. “Great. Best we turn in. I’m tired.”

The look Arthur gave him was shockingly vulnerable. “Already?” he asked but stood anyway, wobbling a little. 

The walk back to the hotel was decidedly quiet but soon Arthur needed more and more help staying upright. He could be quite endearing for someone who insisted on being an asshole, Eames decided, if the goofy, tired look on his face was anything to go by. Somehow they made it to the fifth floor—Eames, tipsy and tired and cursing the entire time and Arthur breaking into laughter at one point. They take a break on the fourth floor; panting and wiping sweat off but pick themselves up and make it eventually.

The room they ended up in is Arthur’s and Eames went as far as to guide him into the bed and switch on the air conditioner before turning to leave. 

“Eames,” Arthur said, sitting up and reaching for his wrist. He stood and wrapped his arms around Eames’ neck and pressed his lips against his. “Why are you following me?” He asked softly before he licked his way in.

Eames’ hands clutched at the back of Arthur’s shirt, bunching it up at the small of his back; Arthur is slight but veins stripe his forearms. He’s built like a whip and was very much like one too, always tightly coiled and ready to lash out. Eames could easily get lost in this: the slow, drunken slide of their mouths against one another, the sticky mix of heat and humidity against the rapidly cooling room. Arthur’s strong fingers dug into his hair and Eames’ liked the way their stubbly jaws brushed against each other but he also wanted Arthur to come to him completely awake, not in this doubtful, drunken-dreamlike state. 

He pillowed Arthur against his mouth just a little longer, opening him up for one last selfish taste, filthy and wet before gently moving him to the bed. “Sleep, darling.” Arthur’s dimples deepened just a bit more before his face slowly relaxed

When Eames went to check on him the next morning, the room was empty and already being cleaned out.

Las Vegas is warm but there’s a lucky breeze as Eames rolled onto the Strip. Normally, he enjoyed the neon sights of the Sin City but the call from Ariadne sounded urgent. He drove right up to luxury hotel and let the valet take the car, making his way directly through the gambling crowd to the large suite. He knocked on the door and was surprised when Ariadne opened it. She looked the same as ever, young but guarded. 

“An extraction,” was all she said and beckoned for him to come to the bedroom. There was a young woman on one bed, who Eames vaguely recognized as an heiress or other. Ariadne went to kneel by her bedside, tenderly pushing back a lock of hair. 

Arthur was in the other one, fast asleep. Tubes snaked from both their arms into the suitcase on the ground. 

“Her fiancee’s father hired us to hunt through her background,” Ariadne explained. “Suspicion of legitimacy and or other.”

“And the problem?” Eames said, shedding his coat, although he was already beginning to suspect.

“He’s not waking up. He didn’t follow his music.” Ariadne pointed to the headphones around Arthur’s ears. “He should have briefed her on how to help each other out of this in case it happened but for some reason, neither of them have woken up.” She bent down and picked up the spare tube, handing it to Eames. “We called you because you were the closest.” She added, clearly lying.

Eames was on his back on the grass when he woke in the dream, the haunting echo of children’s laughter ringing in the background.

“You built this, Ariadne?” Eames asked out loud before looking down at himself. He’s wearing an all-black suit lined with pinstripes; his tie clip, his cufflinks, his watch and his pocket square are covered in hearts.

“Actually, the dreamer built it, though this construct is fairly simple. I searched the place--nothing extraordinary about this place. Looks like the backyard of a country home but I haven’t seen a house.” Arthur said, coming over the thick grass. He’s wearing a suit much like Eames’ but white with a top hat and covered in spades, ridiculous and very attractive.

“It happens sometimes to people who have recurring dreams. It’s strong enough to wipe out the world Ari and I tried to establish for her comfort,” he explained before making a face at Eames’ ludicrous outfit.

“And where is she? You missed your cue and Ariadne thinks it’s unwise to initiate the Kick.” Eames tried to muster up some anger or annoyance but his instinct told him that would be a bad move.

“It’s kind of interesting, actually,” Arthur said, mildly, stepping aside. A tiny girl peered out from behind his legs. Eames recognized her as the woman on the other bed. “She’s been secured against Extraction…uniquely. Her subconscious has been put into a state of pure innocence. Her lifestyle is free from want or responsibility. She’s got money, beauty, enough intelligence to comprehend the training required—but basically, she’s sheltered.” Arthur patted the little girl on the head and she smiled up at him, as a huge wave of bubbles came floating out of the grass. 

“Inception might have been easier in a subconscious as impressionable as this one,” Arthur mused. “She’s young and chaotic, any secrets probably tossed away casually or pushed down because of it’s ugliness in…who knows? A rabbit hole, maybe.” They all look down and sure enough, there’s a rabbit hole at their feet, a foot across and of an unfathomable depth. Jumping in would be easy. Climbing out probably not so much. And the fall could either Kick them back into the real world or it would a continuous freefall and an inevitable Limbo.

Eames shook his head. “You should go.” He came forward and took Arthur by the arm. “I’ve asked Ariadne to cue your music—there it is.” The soft warble of Edith Piaf filtered through the dream. 

“No, the job’s not done.” Arthur tried to shake him off. 

“You’ve been under for almost two days. You’re done here,” Eames reached up, took off Arthur’s top hat and tossed it aside. “Go. Please,” Arthur’s eyes began to droop. Eames leaned in and touched their mouths together. 

“And dammit, be there when I wake up, okay?” 

And then Arthur’s gone.

Eames looked at the little girl who blinked up at him and held out her hand. When he took it, he noticed them to be of equal height. He was wearing a sailor suit and his hands were small and chubby. But they’re big enough to crawl into the rabbit hole now and Eames knew it was alright to follow her.

There was a crick in his neck when Eames came to. Arthur sat on the edge of the bed across from him, watching, looking tired and worried. The young woman is awake too and Ariadne is helping her up, offering her a Kleenex for the tears running down her cheeks.

“Are you alright?” Ariadne asked. “You passed out at the party and we brought you my room. But I’ll help you find your way back now.” The woman nodded as Ariadne helped her to her feet. “Let me get you some tea or water. Do you feel sick?”

“Hey,” Arthur said, coming to stand over Eames. “Only ten minutes. You look a little rough.”

“I hear that’s what happens when you fall down a rabbit hole.” Eames said, rubbing his eyes. Arthur is knelt by his chair, looking up at him. 

“How did you manage to get out?” Arthur asked, always curious.

Eames dug around for his double-headed coin and passes it through his fingers perfectly before tossing it into the air.

Heads.

“I guess I’m just lucky,” Eames said, pocketing the coin before pulling Arthur onto his lap. “Else there must be something calling me back.”

San Francisco was the same as ever, a consistent 65 degrees, sun high and people everywhere. The apartment was typical of apartments on residential hilltops: white, small, one large curved bay window looking out onto the street just before it drops down. Everything in San Francisco is part of the horizon and Eames isn’t sure he likes that. Like the Fall is always waiting. 

Eames rolled over to the side of the bed where Arthur lay awake, rolling the dice over and over on the bedside table. He bent to kiss him on the shoulder, catching his attention.

“I really hope you don’t think this is a dream,” Eames said, stretching out on the pillows and folding his arms under his head. 

The die clattered onto the ground but Arthur ignored it, turning to lie on his back. “It’s not,” he said, looking up at the ceiling. The sunset painted his chest in orange stripes. His hair was in disarray, falling over his brow so unlike his usual neatness. 

“You sound so sure,” Eames teased. 

“What did you find in that woman’s dream? The one from Las Vegas,” Arthur said, sitting up to better look at Eames’ face. 

“What more do you want to know?” Eames had given Arthur the one and only important piece of information. Arthur seemed convinced there had been more. “There was nothing else.”

“You’re lying,” Arthur frowned but he didn’t pull away when Eames tugged him close. 

“Tell me why Ariadne called me and not Cobb,” Eames asked, placing the question in the vicinity of Arthur’s neck. “Tell me why you’re still doing Extraction without someone on Point.”

“It’s not the money,” Arthur panted, when Eames moved his hands lower, sliding his fingers down his spine. “But I need to know—“

“What else is there to know?” Eames moved his mouth to Arthur’s chin and then to his lips. He rolled Arthur to his back and kissed him harder. “I’m not there in your dreams,” he tried, not knowing what kind of answer he wanted from the other man.

“You don’t know that,” Arthur said, pulling back a little and looking up at him, a little wrecked and Eames wondered if Arthur had been searching his dreams, studying his own subconscious as he was inclined to do and how vivid his dreams of the Forger had been. 

Eames bent his head to kiss him again. He did know.

\- END -


End file.
